Chapter Three
Lochleekie Caravan Park
Life Is Too Short for Nescafe.
Helmut arrived in Lochgilphead on a Saturday at lunchtime. He walked into the caravan park and straight to the shedlike reception and stared at the George Pumpernickel Esquire inscribed in gold across the entrance.
The door hung limply from its hinges; one kick would have dislodged it. Helmut, a polite man, didn’t touch the door but rather shouted several times and then knocked on the wall. The door creaked open and two hens trotted out. Helmut, a man not comfortable with hens, decided to take a stroll.
He passed several caravans, most in need of some “TLC,” as his English teacher liked to say. Finally, he stopped at a poky caravan the size of a matchbox with a weird-looking pink taffeta apparition hanging in the win
